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“Agatha Glyn.”

She read this rather confused composition over twice, growing more sorry for herself each time. Then she put it in an envelope, addressed it to Charlie, looked out Uncle Van in the Directory, and sent it under cover to his residence. Then she went and lay down on the hearth-rug, and began to cry, and through her tears she said aloud to herself,

“I wonder whether he’ll write or come.”

Because it seemed to her entirely impossible that, in spite of her prayer, he should put the letter in the fire and let her go. Surely he too remembered the dear old Pool, and the temple, and–the rest!

CHAPTER IX

TWO MEN OF SPIRIT

“The fact is,” observed Lord Thrapston complacently, “the girl very much resembles me in disposition.”

Calder’s eyes grew larger and rounder.

“Do you really think so?” he asked anxiously.

“Well, this little lark of hers–hang me, it’s just what I should have enjoyed doing fifty years ago.”

“Ah–er–Lord–Thrapston, have you noticed the resemblance you speak of in any other way?”

“That girl, except that she is a girl, is myself over again–myself over again.”

“The deuce!”

“I beg your pardon, Calder; I grow hard of hearing.”

“Nothing. Lord Thrapston. Look here, Lord Thrapston—-“

“Well, well, my dear boy?”

“Oh, nothing; that is–“

“But she’ll be all right in your hands, my boy. You must keep an eye; on her, don’t you know: she’ll need a bit o’ driving; but I really don’t see why you should come to grief. I don’t, ‘pon my soul. No. With tact on your part, you might very well pull through.”

“How d’ye mean tact, Lord Thrapston?”

“Oh, amuse her. Let her travel; give her lots of society; don’t bother her with domestic affairs. Don’t let her feel she’s under any obligation. That’s what she kicks against. So do I; always did.”

Calder pulled his mustache. Lord Thrapston had briefly sketched the exact opposite of his ideal of married life.

“The fact is,” continued the old man, “the boy’s an uncommon handsome boy. She can’t resist that. No more can I; never could.”

There chanced to be a mirror opposite Calder, and he impartially considered himself. There was, he concluded, every prospect of Miss Glyn resisting any engrossing passion for him.

“It’s very good of you to have told, me all about it,” he remarked, rising. “I’ll think it over.”

“Yes, do. Of course, I admit she’s given you a perfectly good reason for breaking off your engagement if you like. Mind that. We don’t feel aggrieved, Calder. Act as you think best. We admit we’re in the wrong, but we must stand by what we’ve done.”

“I shouldn’t like to give her any pain–“

“Pain! Oh, dear me, no, my dear boy. She won’t fret. Make your mind easy about that.”

Calder felt a sudden impulse to disclose to Lord Thrapston his secret opinion of him, and he recollected, with a pang, that in the course of so doing he would have to touch on more than one characteristic shared by the old man and Agatha. Where were his visions of a quiet home in the country, of freedom from the irksome duties of society, of an obedient and devoted wife, surrounded by children and flanked by jampots? He had once painted this picture for Agatha, shortly after she had agreed to that arrangement which she declined to call a promise of marriage; and it occurred to him now that she had allowed the subject to drop without any expression of concurrence. He took leave of Lord Thrapston and went for a solitary walk. He wanted to think. But the position of affairs was such that other persons also felt the need of reflection, and Calder had not been walking by the Row very long before, lifting his eyes, he saw a young man approaching. The young man was not attired as he ought to have been: he wore a light suit, a dissolute necktie, and a soft wideawake crammed down low on his head. He had obviously forsworn the vanities of the world and was wearing the willow. He came up to Calder and held out his hand.